


Immortal

by Writcraft



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Belts, Chan, Dark, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Order lose the battle at the Department of Mysteries and Harry Potter is captured by the Death Eaters, forcing Dumbledore to share his secrets and accelerate his plans.  But Severus has a secret of his own, and he decides to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortal

**Author's Note:**

> This story is AU after the end of Goblet of Fire, and a woefully inadequate number of words to deal with this premise. Nevertheless, the idea took hold and I couldn’t shake it. All mistakes are my own. Written for the Taboo Kink Fest at HP Darkarts on Livejournal.

The name trips off Harry’s tongue in strange, sibilant hisses.

Severus. Severus. _Severus_.

If he says it enough times the once familiar name becomes alien and unrecognisable. He breaks it down into syllables and rolls the ‘r’ on his tongue.

Professor.

The word catches in his throat and the whisper escapes into the darkness, forbidden. Hoarse sounds slip from his lips and slide over the moss-covered stone, settling where his hands _scratch scratch_ on the floor.

When he closes his eyes, Harry’s mind fills with dark robes buttoned up to the neck, fastidiously folded waistcoats and crisp, white cotton shirts, until there’s no space left for his other memories.

It’s too dangerous to think of anything else. The warmth of the Burrow at Christmas, the laughter in Hermione’s voice, the heat to Ginny’s once-soft smile and the reassuring touch of Ron’s hand are locked away tightly in the recesses of his mind. They seem so very long ago, and if Harry allows himself a moment of daydreaming he might just lose himself forever.

Harry focuses on protecting his thoughts and keeping them hidden from prying eyes and inquisitive fingers of magic which push at his mind and search for his weakness. Every painful Occlumency lesson twists through his mind, together with the recollection of balmy nights and the gentle breeze of a summer’s evening. The memory tastes like nips of Firewhisky and fierce, angry kisses. It smells like cinnamon, potions and freshly cut grass. Warm, salty beads of perspiration gather on Harry’s tongue and if he strains hard enough he can hear a dark, rough-edged murmur.

“ _This is madness_.”

Funny, how that madness is the only thing that keeps him sane.

**

Harry knows Rodolphus Lestrange by his laugh, high-pitched and instantly recognisable. The sound jars Harry from his thoughts, and he twists in place. The shackles catch his aching wrists and the metal hits the floor with a dull clink.

The cloth covering Harry’s eyes is musty and damp from the rainwater which seeps through the ceiling and drips onto the floor. He counted them, once. Three hundred and fifty six droplets of water, before he lost track and had to start again. Two hundred. One hundred and thirty two. Sleep, finally and a moment of peace filled with whispered words of encouragement and strong hands holding Harry together.

Rodolphus is one of the worst. Not _the_ worst, because nobody beats Greyback. A gurgle of laughter threatens to escape from Harry’s lips at the image of Greyback holding a trophy aloft, while the Death Eaters congratulate him on his particular brand of cruelty.

_Like that do you, boy? Let me smell your fear. Let me taste your insides. Let me turn you inside out._

Harry shudders and twists his head, listening carefully. Rodolphus hasn’t come alone, but Greyback has stayed away. This time.

“I’m bored of these games. We should just kill the boy.”

Malfoy’s voice, cool and laced with scorn. Harry isn’t scared of Malfoy. Not anymore. When it’s Malfoy’s turn to fuck Harry, he can never get hard. His slim fingers grip Harry’s hips tightly enough to bruise, and he grunts and groans while he thrusts his limp prick into the slick crack of Harry’s arse. He puts on a good show, Malfoy.

“Kill him?” Lestrange’s voice dips and he laughs again, his words oily and slick.

Perhaps not good enough.

“Do _not_ take that tone with me. I am one of the Dark Lord’s most faithful-”

“-Lucius, please.” Lestrange snorts and he brushes Harry’s hair from his face. The tender gesture makes Harry want to weep, but he doesn’t. He’ll never give them the satisfaction, no matter what they do to him. “You’re a traitor, only alive because the Dark Lord enjoys seeing you squirm. Besides, you know how he plans to kill the boy.”

“Severus is taking his time with the potion,” Malfoy mutters. “If you ask me, he’s not to be trusted. It’s precisely why the Dark Lord keeps him away from Potter. He knows that Muggle-loving fool of a Headmaster will be plotting to rescue his Boy Who Lived, and Severus will be part of it.”

“I’m not asking you.” Rodolphus taps his wand against his palm. It connects against his flesh with a _slap_ and Harry can almost sense Malfoy recoil. “Severus cannot know where the boy is because the Dark Lord requires him to maintain his post at Hogwarts for as long as possible. While he is there, Severus is vulnerable. All it takes is a drop of Veritaserum...”

Harry’s fingers twitch at the mention of Snape, but he makes sure he doesn’t give himself away. If Harry can be glad of anything, it’s that Snape hasn’t been witness to any of this. That would have broken Harry more quickly than any of Greyback’s games.  
Lestrange’s fingers leave Harry’s forehead and Malfoy’s complaints ebb away to be replaced by the smooth slip and slide of a belt being removed.

“If you must insist on continuing in this manner, I want no part of it. Potter should be _dead_. I refuse to sully myself with this filthy little Mudblood whore any longer.”

“Run along, Lucius. I plan to take my time.”

Malfoy’s heels clip along the floor, expensive leather against cobbled stone. There’s a pause and the sound of lips smacking together. Harry fights back a shiver and prepares himself for the next move.

“We’re going to have _fun_ today, Potter.”

_Fuck you_

He doesn’t say it out loud, having learned from his mistakes. Now he knows Rodolphus likes Harry full of fire and spirit, Harry doesn’t speak at all.

Rodolphus finally brings the buckle-end of his belt down on Harry’s aching body.  
When Harry cries out as the metal tears through his skin, Rodolphus starts to hum.

**

It’s darker than usual, and bile rises in Harry’s throat as he curls into a tight ball on the cold stone. Despite the chill in the air, his whole body burns with fever.

His limbs ache from being pressed into unnatural positions. His lips carry the coppery taste of blood and when he swallows, his throat is dry and inflamed. He shivers until his teeth chatter and he tries to find a position which is more comfortable than the rest.

He sleeps fitfully, dreaming of a bed that isn’t his own. The same low, silky voice he hears every night invades his dreams. The words all merge together into one, but he can just about make out his name.

_Harry_.

Cool, slender fingers brush Harry’s hair from his face and this time – just this once – he allows himself to cry. Salty tears gather on his lips, and the cloth around his head is slowly released. He blinks into the darkness and gulps back his sobs because he knows this is the end.

“I don’t want to die.” It’s been so long since he’s spoken in anything other than screams and garbled words, Harry no longer recognises his own voice. “Please. I don’t want to die.”

But then he feels his head tipped back, and the glass bottle presses against his lips. His eyes adjust to the dim light and Snape cradles Harry in his arms.

“Look at me.” Snape’s voice is gruff, and Harry does as he asks.

Snape’s trying really hard not to show he cares. He does that sometimes, when Harry bounds onto the bed and tackles Snape back onto the sheets with a hot kiss, sticky with jam and affection. He gets that look which says _insolent brat_ and a hundred and one other things that Harry suspects Snape will never say out loud.

The look is fond, it’s full of emotion and in that moment there’s nothing wrong with any of it. Love. Nothing wrong with it at all, despite what Sirius and his dad might say and the faces Ron would probably pull if he knew. It doesn’t matter that Ginny would Bat-Bogey the arses off them both, or that Hermione would purse her lips and say _Harry_ in the way that implies he’s done something thoughtless again. It doesn’t matter that Remus would take Snape to one side and talk about ethics and why Harry’s too young for any of this.

Harry’s too young for a lot of things. Too young to die, for a start.

“It wasn’t…”

“Quiet, Potter!” Clipped, brusque tones now as the liquid fills Harry’s mouth and he struggles to swallow. He understands. Someone else is there, and this is all part of a plan. They’re not safe yet and now really isn’t the time for Harry to reassure Snape that it wasn’t an unwanted seduction – that age doesn’t matter when they’ve both lived more than most.

“I trusted you.” The words come out with a gurgle as finally Harry manages to swallow the last drop of the viscous liquid. Snape swims before his eyes and his forehead sears with blinding pain. The door to the cellars open with a loud clatter of metal against stone, and Voldemort’s cold, gleeful laughter dances around the room.

They’re all too busy celebrating to notice when Snape’s fingers brush through Harry’s hair and no one hears the words slip from Harry’s lips in a lazy moment of potion-addled reassurance.

“I still do.”

**

When Harry wakes, Hermione and Ron are at his bedside. Their faces flush with happiness and they flash each other quick looks of concern which they think Harry probably doesn’t notice, and he tells them he’s fine. Really.

“It’s over.” Ron puffs his chest out and looks proudly at Hermione. “We killed three Horcruxes between us, didn’t we?”

“I’m not sure if killed is the right word.” Hermione rolls her eyes but smiles at Ron nevertheless. “But yes, we did. The Aurors dealt with Nagini, of course.”

“And Voldemort?” Harry takes in the way Hermione’s brow furrows and a chill settles over his body.

“Dead, the Ministry says. But Professor Lupin mentioned something which didn’t sound quite right…”

“No body,” Ron affirms. “Shacklebolt reckons the force of the spells tore him apart until there was nothing left. Pretty gruesome stuff.”

“What else did Remus say?” His mouth dry, Harry looks between Ron and Hermione.

“Nothing. Ron’s dad ushered him out of the room and they closed the door to carry on the conversation in private.” Hermione huffs. “We’re hardly children anymore.”

“No.” Harry feels a pang for the loss of his innocence, and wonders if he’ll ever get back to the wide-eyed place where the simplest of magic makes his heart sing and a bag of sugar quills can make him unspeakably happy.

Ron looks animated. “I hear Snape was giving the Death Eaters a good round or two of Cruciatus before Shacklebolt stepped in. Too bloody right, I say. It’s about the only thing that greasy git did something useful.”

Harry winces at the description of Snape and his senses fill with crisp, enunciated words and the moments when the carefully crafted speech falters and gives way to darkness and clandestine pleasure.

“He tried to find Harry.” Hermione’s eyes flood with tears. “ _Everyone_ tried. Besides, he brewed the potion. The one Professor Dumbledore asked him to make.”

“I suppose he did,” Ron agrees, grudgingly.

Harry notices the way their hands twine together and squeeze – a brief moment of affection that makes him feel inexplicably lonely.

“We’ll be back to normal soon enough, I’d say,” Ron continues. “McGonagall’s already on about catching up on the work we missed.”

“Brilliant.” Harry forces a smile. He steadies his breathing and closes his eyes.  
Dark robes, strong hands and cinnamon. It’s over.

_You’re safe._

When he opens his eyes again, Ron and Hermione give Harry the same look they keep giving each other.

“Perhaps it would help to talk…”

“Not really,” Harry interrupts. He softens his tone and shakes his head at Hermione. “Not yet.”

“If you’re sure?” Hermione looks doubtful.

“Yeah. We’re here, mate. Whatever you need.” Ron squeezes Harry’s shoulder, the awkward touch of someone that wants to help but doesn’t know how.

“Really. I’m fine.”

If he counts to ten, Harry thinks. One, two, three. If he counts to ten he might be fine. He might be able to carry on talking about homework and Quidditch. Four, five, six. He might be able to push Lestrange and his thick, unwashed cock to another part of his mind which doesn’t have to be unlocked again. Seven, eight. Perhaps he might even forget Greyback. Nine. Harry reminds himself to breathe and smiles on ten.

“Do you want us to bring you some food?”

“Not at the moment. I just need to sleep.” Harry pats his hand over his mouth and yawns. “I’ll eat something later. Dobby will sort me out, I’m sure of it.”

When Ron and Hermione leave, Harry watches the door until he finally succumbs to sleep.

**

“Am I dreaming?” It’s dark and the Infirmary is empty when Harry turns on his side and sees Snape standing by the window. His arms are folded behind his back and his hands clasp together.

“I’m quite happy to cast a Stinging-Hex in your general direction if you would like any proof that you are, indeed, awake?”

“No, thanks all the same.” Harry snorts and sits up in bed. “What took you so long?”

“There were certain…things…I needed to take care of.” Snape turns and fixes Harry with an impenetrable stare. “Besides, I am not sure what Miss Granger and Mr Weasley would have made of my mopping your fevered brow, simpering at your bedside.”

“I doubt you would have been simpering.” Harry rolls his eyes. “But you came in the end. That’s what matters.”

“Indeed.” Snape inclines his head. He approaches the bed and trails his fingers through Harry’s hair. “You wish to go back to normal?”

Harry swallows thickly. He sees Ron and Hermione’s hands clasp, then unclasp, squeeze and release. He breathes out and shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can.”

Snape doesn’t protest, instead he settles on the bed and brushes his thumb over the scar on Harry’s forehead. “Your experiences will leave their mark, in the same way all Dark magic leaves a trace.”

Harry nods slowly, and leans into Snape. He breathes a sigh of relief when Snape’s arms finally wrap around him. Cinnamon. Safety. _Home._

“What was in that potion you gave me? Silver, tasted like chocolate.”

“It was nothing more than a potent Sleeping Draught.” Snape’s fingers tangle in Harry’s hair and he looks at him momentarily. It’s a familiar look, full of dark uncertainty and depth of emotion. “You must believe me when I tell you that information is to be shared with no one. Do you understand?”

“I don’t see why, but if you insist.” Harry blinks back a wave of tiredness and clutches onto Snape’s robes. “Dumbledore wants to see me tomorrow. He’s going to ask all sorts of questions.”

“I see.” Snape’s voice contains a note of anger. “Of course he will question my methods. You are to tell him the potion was green. Dark green, almost black. The flavour was unpleasant, bitter. It is critical that you tell him it hurt to drink.”

“Why would you give me a potion like that?” Harry yawns and Snape traces his fingers over Harry’s forehead, pulling him closer into his arms so Harry can nestle there.

“I wouldn’t,” Snape replies, tightly. “Not when you asked me expressly not to do so. Damn the consequences. There was simply _no guarantee_.”

“I’m not sure I understand. I didn’t ask you anything.” The wooliness from earlier returns and the room shifts and slides out of focus. “It’s over, though?”

As Harry shifts between sleep and waking, his scar flares with pain and he thinks he hears Snape reply.

“It will be. Just as soon as I am able to devise another way.”

_~Fin~_


End file.
